


Bleak House

by WolfAndHound_Archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Missing Scene, Romance, Second War with Voldemort, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 21:01:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5942971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfAndHound_Archivist/pseuds/WolfAndHound_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>12 Grimmauld Place is leeching Sirius' soull</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bleak House

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Lassenia, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Wolf and Hound](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Wolf_and_Hound), which was created to make stories posted to the Sirius_Black_and_Remus_Lupin Yahoo! mailing list easier to find. However, even though I still love the fandom, I am no longer active in it and do not have the time to maintain it. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in December 2015. I posted an announcement with Open Doors, but we may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Wolf and Hound collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wolfandhound/profile).

"That was a charming display"

"Glad you thought so."

"I didn't."

"Sarcasm Moony. Fuck! You used to have a sense of humour."

"How many years has it been and you still can't be civil to each other?"

"Snivellus was the one being uncivil, as you put it. First he tried to boss me about, and then Harry and then..."

"How old are you Sirius? 15? Or 35? Do you have to lower yourself down to his level every every time? Don't you think you are a little past, 'He started it'?"

"How old am I? I'm fucking 22. Somehow I missed out on all those experiences which help us grow up. I wonder why that was? For Morgana's sake Remus! Don't fucking nag me, I'm not in the mood." He left the room and I knew he had gone to his mother's bedroom where he kept Buckbeak.

I watched him go.

I knew it was impossible to attempt to go to that room to reason with him, as the room had more of a concentrated negativity than the entire house. It seemed to me that it was beginning to be impossible to reach him mentally or physically the longer he stayed in this house. It was as if the house itself was a becoming a Dementor, leeching out every good thought, every noble sentiment that he had ever had.

I could feel him slipping away inexorably like strands of seaweed in a strong current, slippery and difficult to grasp, impossible to pull back.

Bleak House. I had always called 12 Grimmauld Place that. It was completely wasted on him of course as due to his upbringing he hadn't read any Dickens until I convinced him to try Pickwick in our 4th year. After that he became obsessed, like he did with anything he enjoyed, and devoured every single one of the maestro's books, finishing infuriatingly at last with Bleak House. Then he understood. Looking back though, he was right; you couldn't begin Dickens with Bleak House. It would shatter your mind. It's something you need to be protected against...It's like life...

I digress.

**return to life**

Dickens again, see?

Until we had moved into Bleak House, the few months granted to us from June to August 95 had been the happiest since the rift had begun between us all those years ago. The date of my return to life? Unforgettable. 25th June. The day after Cedric was killed and Voldemort returned to his body. Odd that two such horrific events could be so close to the one event that had made me live again. I had been in my small rented Muggle house; nondescript and powerfully warded from the identical terraced houses either side of it. To all intents and purposes from the outside it looked like all of the others, a tiny front garden, a bay window, lace curtains, two stories, red brick. I hated it. I had only been lastingly happy in two places: Hogwarts and Sirius' stupid coldwater flat. This was no home. Home to me was where Sirius was and right now he didn't need me. I was cast adrift.

On that unforgettable day, I was lying face down on a really disgusting brown leatherette sofa on one side of the room, brushing up on my Magical Creatures. I had just reached the page for Werewolves and had paused to read the words as I always did, my temper rising at the prejudicial and inflammatory nonsense.

Suddenly the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. At first I thought it was simply a reaction to reading the crap about Werewolves being completely uncontrollable and natural born killers, but it was stronger, more...pungent than that. I closed the book with a snap and concentrated on my hackles. Yes, they were definitely raised.

Someone was trying to get in.

There had been no knock. The wards had not sounded. Nothing seemed wrong, except that the wolf knew that something was wrong. I stood up, and pushed my too long fringe back from my face, closed my eyes and **was** , just **was** for a long moment. I could feel the air around me, I was aware of every mote of dust, could feel where the furniture was outlined in relation to my body. I could have danced through the room without incident. Everything was lit up: Under my eyelids I could see the room as clearly as if I had my eyes wide open in the moonlight. I could sense every warmth or draught imperceptible to my usual senses.

Without even noticing that my eyes were still closed I walked softly out towards the back door, I bumped into nothing, but was not aware of this until much later. I reached the back door and stood immobile, eyes closed, nostrils flared, head back, one hand on my wand, the other on the doorknob.

The scent hit me like a wave of longing and remembrance; dog and man, hair and skin, old and new, shining, shining, oh the colour, the taste, the tang of silver - why was he always silver? And I threw open my eyes and threw open the door.

"Hi." Was all he said.

His face was like chalk, like rice paper, white against the black hair, scraped against the cheekbones, his lips bloodless. I stepped aside to let him in, my mouth dry in shock, astounded at the change in him longing to curl him into my arms but not having the strength of mind to do so. We were no longer close enough for that.

Strange that.

We had had one awkward meeting when he had come North the previous year and he had looked well then, filled out, his hair neat. We'd met in a park, a stupid park filled with parents and vile fat children ghastly in pink and yellow puffy jackets and Norwegian hats. We had sat there dumbly holding hands.

We'd hardly spoken to each other.

I hated myself. For everything that had gone before. For cowardice, for not allowing myself to say all that I wanted to, for not letting go that afternoon. I should have told him everything, thrown myself on his mercy; instead all I could do was clasp his beautiful brown hand in mine so hard he could see both sets of their knuckles turn white.

When he had turned to go I **stupid, stupid** stupidly went to kiss him and he turned his head so that the cheek was what I hit. He didn't say a word.

Then he was gone; back onto Buckbeak hidden in the night, and lost to me.

Again.

Now after 9 months of living rough, he looked almost as bad as when he had just escaped from prison, thin unkempt and dirty. He stepped into the brown kitchen, looked around and made a face.

"Nasty. Got any food?" I didn't trust myself to speak and gathered Merlin knows what together and sat and watched him eat. Watched him as his beautiful ravaged face did not look my way. Watched him as those black fathomless orbs avoided mine like he had been practising for this very moment as he looked around my kitchen but did not look at me.

Finally the most beautiful voice in the world speaks. It is tinged with its normal sadness but my oversensitive ears pick up something else. Something lurking behind those modulated aristocratic tones. A deep ... what?

He tells the horrific story of the third task and of Harry's year. I know some of it, but not all. I try and keep my hands still but I want to grab his hair, to punch him over and over; to blame him for **my** inconstancy. How dare he deal with this alone? Why didn't he come to me? Why didn't anyone come to me? Do I really deserve this?

I am pathetic

"Cedric's poor family." Is all I can say. The wolf rails at me. What? Rip him to shreds! He left you behind! He thought it was you!

"Yeah, I know. You can imagine how Harry feels. 'Kill the spare' the bastard said. And it was Harry who told Cedric to share the cup." His head dropped to the table, "if only I could have stayed with him..."

The wolf is silenced momentarily as my eyes fill with tears in shared grief. It doesn't understand empathy. I hear my voice speak again, but it's not me. And it's not the wolf. It's platitude. Cliqué, but the wolf is rising again. Now however there is something to fight for...

"What you all forget to realise is that Harry is not a little boy any longer. He's been through as much and more than most grown wizards. He knows what last night meant. He knows that we all have work to do. That's what you are here for right?"

He nods his face still tragic. "Dumbledore wants me... Us.... To contact the old crowd. It's OK if I stay?"

"You have to ask, Sirius?" I stare at his face; he is still not looking at me. I see a hand raise to his face and fingers, (are they mine?) take a black lock in them and stroke them gently; "He's resurrecting the Order isn't he?"

"He'd be God if he could do that," he says, a voice still bitter with the loss of his best friend, "and we would have a lot more wizards in our ranks."

He goes to push my hand away but I catch his hand in mine and I hold it as fiercely as that night in the park. Finally those hallowed eyes raise and I am consumed by black fire. He looks at me a long time, his expression hopeless and endless. My stomach turns over and I know that if he leaves me behind again, I can't see a future. Not for any of us. I close my eyes unable to stand the accusations.

Pathetic. Cowardly.

There is dampness on my palm and my eyes open again. He's taken my hand into the black curtain of his hair and is kissing the palm, deeply lingeringly. I can't see his eyes, his hair falling around his face like a confessional curtain. In an unforgotten surge, I feel my loins stir with the fire that belonged to his touch and no- one else's, the stirring he had not aroused for more years than I cared to remember.

Then my palm was wetter than it should be. I was out of my chair in a heartbeat when I realise.

He's crying.

There is no movement from his face, he keeps my hand clasped to his mouth and I feel helpless. My Sirius does not cry. His voice tears me apart as surely as if he were a cannon loaded with shrapnel.

"When will we forgive each other Moony? We had everything once you and I, and we let that bastard take it all from us. Can we ever be whole?" My heart is bursting and I surge around the table and am at his feet.

"I am the one who doesn't deserve forgiveness," I mutter, pushing my head into his lap, unable to look up and see those tragic black holes. "You spent all those years knowing it wasn't me. I spent them convinced that it was you. ..." but he grabs my upper arms and forces me up, up like salvation, into his lap, his face bright and forceful.

"Stop it...Stop! Don't you see? This is what he wanted, family against family, son against father, lover against lover. Divide and conquer. Dumbledore knows, he's trying to unite the houses...We must all band together. Oh Merlin. Fuck. If only we had realised all this before." Sirius trailed off. "We were all so young and so very stupid." And then there are hot pale lips at my throat, painful fingers at my back, teeth at my neck, and muttered curses like benediction,

"Fuck. Moony. Remy. Why. Merlin. I Love You." And I am lost in the torrent of fingers and tongues and hands and mouths and sudden softness and wonderful steel. We have been too long apart and there are places that need exorcising. The demons were not as easily laid as Remus Lupin.

We had had one blissful week. Just seven short days and six long nights in my horrible house before we started to work in earnest for the Order. That one week was the most wonderful of my life. My disgusting bedroom with it's tiny floral print wallpaper, the bed with the truly revolting pink candlewick bedspread, two huge brown Victorian wardrobes that Sirius would check daily for false backs, snow and Mr Tumnus. Always laughing and always disappointed when he didn't find anything.

Every single time.

We didn't leave the house. We hardly left the bedroom, Sirius considered a second not in my bed, in my arms, or in my trembling body was a wasted second, unless he was looking for Aslan.

We still hadn't talked about...before...but suddenly it didn't seem to matter. We knew each other's sins. We knew what we were now.

And now was enough.

Or it was then.

We did Dumbledore's bidding and recruited everyone who was still alive then we moved into Bleak House in July. At first nothing was different; we were whole, we laughed we cleaned we loved.. The house was in a disgusting state. We cleared a guest room for our own use. Sirius refused point blank to use one of the family rooms and I understood his reasons even though a bigger room would have been nicer, and for days on end we cleaned, held meetings and made love in front of the big kitchen fire.

Once, sweating and naked, pinned beneath an exhausted Sirius, my body filled with his seed, I pointed out the impracticality of this spot.

"What if someone were to Floo in?". He barked his old familiar laugh, my stomach flipping over, my erection returning **once more!** at the joyful sound of it.

"Then whoever did such a rude thing without warning," he chuckled and rolled me over onto my back, his tongue trailing over my clavicle and southwards navel bound, "would be rewarded with the most beautiful sight in the world. " There was a deep rumble in his throat as he took my cock into his mouth, then raised his head again briefly, "My Moony."

He never got to test that theory. We were invaded by the Order shortly afterwards and our ardour had to be confined to our bedroom. Finally the Order was ready and Dumbledore gave us our tasks. My job was propaganda and recruitment which meant I had to leave him behind often for days. That was the beginning of the trouble. He trusted Dumbledore implicitly, listened to all the reasons the headmaster gave, agreed with every word he said, but it didn't make him any happier.

"What if something happened to you?" he would say, clutching me desperately to him the nights before I had to leave him. "What if you never came back? Like Caradoc? Or in bits like Benjy?" I understood his impotence. What was the point of Dumbledore telling Sirius it was too dangerous for him to be seen when the rest of us were in danger just stepping out of the front door? I knew that he felt that his masculinity, his bravery, his spirit of adventure and his very essence was being doubted. Being denounced. Subdued. Smothered. Chained.

Although I was desperately worried about Harry's hearing, I was so very pleased when he came and joined the growing household. Sirius regained a little of his old composure, finally having someone else to worry about other than me or his own precious ego, but after Harry went back to school his mood swings became more pronounced. I would return from my sojourns and often had to hunt him out, when it used to be he would launch himself at me, his mouth on mine before I could speak.

Over Christmas, I almost allowed himself to believe that the Sirius I had lost was resurfacing slowly, like a fossil working its way to the surface of a beach. With the advent of the Christmas holidays he had been almost happy writing lists of presents, decorations, food and drink, then waylaid anyone who was passing into doing his shopping for him. He was hoping that Harry could come but he didn't know if Dumbledore would allow it. Arthur's accident changed all that, and even with the tragedy of it, Sirius was stalwart. He was useful, he was needed, he was happy. He only started to get unhappy again when Harry's holiday was coming to an end and he knew he'd be stuck in Bleak House alone

Then that bastard Severus had to go and compound it all on Harry's last night. To say those things to Sirius, in that insidious voice that was like a poisoned tape recorder, so that you could hear his words clear as day hours after. Somehow, possibly due to his skill in Legilmens, the man had a way of transmitting his lethal words straight into the centres of your brain that dealt with uncertainty, confidence and hate.

Afterwards I dragged him to our room and we argued, or at least I did. Until he stormed off to his mother's room. I stayed in my room while the rest of them had dinner. I loved him so much. So much that I would die to protect him, die to make him happy, and I felt as impotent as he watching the house suck the essence of the man from him.

Then I thought, perhaps I don't have to die. I worked fast, dragging items in from other rooms, trying to be as quiet as I could be. I stood back and looked around. Yes. Perfect.

Now: I send Kreacher to fetch him. The trigger is set to activate when he closes the door and at first I think he is going to be infuriating and not do it. He stands in the doorway, his face distracted at the sounds of the children packing, trying to find items in each other's rooms.

"Come in." I say gently, attempting to deflect him from the distraction of shouting school kids. "I haven't given you your proper present yet."

"Yes you did," he smiles, his beautiful eyes crinkling, "We used it last night remember?"

"How could I forget...I'm still sore..." I raise my arms and he surges in, kicking the door shut. There was a flash of white light and he cries out,

"Remus? What the?" and when it darkens again, we are standing in a perfect facsimile of the nauseous pink and brown bedroom where we had reunited. He grins hugely, "Glamour?"

"Mm." I say, pulling him to me, "The house has been bought by a young couple, its all beech and stripped floors now, so I couldn't exactly take you there - they'd complain," I kiss him deeply, as his hands begin to unrobe me. " My erection races its way towards my waistband, eager to meet Sirius' searching fingers. We are naked in less time than normal and he ravages my skinny frame with a hunger I hadn't felt from him since before Azkaban, his mouth rapacious, his hands crushing in their need. I fall beneath him like a shadow, gasping with joy as he takes me into his lap and impales me, filling me as my legs wrapped around him, my nails tearing his back as my prostate fuses my cock and balls in one fiery furnace. It takes mere minutes and we come together, crying out to each other as if death divided us rather than the slight sheen of sweat.

He lifts my head and kisses me gently, "Moony. My beautiful Moony." He kisses me and my world coalesces and the focus is this handsome man who I have loved for all my life. My world would never be anywhere else. This was real. Never mind the Glamour. We were real. "Thank you." He murmurs, his hands in my hair, "thank you for...everything. It was a lovely present."

Reluctantly, I stand, his cock already half hard pulling from me, "That wasn't your present," I grin and step backwards to the vast wardrobe, pulling it open and removing two huge fur coats. There is a fresh scent of pine, a freezing draught of air and his eyes fly to mine in wonderment.

"You didn't?" He's in my arms again, letting me put the coat on him, kissing me, his arms inside my coat, arousing me again...

"Took just about every ounce of power I had. Don't even ask me to wash a plate with magic for a week." I take his hand. "last one to the lamp post gets to be on the bottom!"


End file.
